the bird

yesterday while driving i saw the bird - the bluebird of happiness - as it bounced off the windshield of a neighboring vehicle. the bird looked not so much happy as surprised. i thought the bird might still be alive, so i swerved to miss it. in my rear view i saw a car spin 360 degrees and come to a stop. since i thought it would provide more time to gawk at the wounded bird, i stopped and pretended to care about the young woman in the car. for such occasions i always keep long stemmed roses on ice in the trunk. as i approached the young lady, i produced the flowers from behind my back. to my surprise, she had something for me as well - the bird. she explained that she spun her car so she could catch the bird in her open rear window.

then something terrible happened, she bit the bird in half. when i asked her why she did that, she said that she only did what i wasn't man enough to do. i asked why the bird had to die and she told me not to be such a girl. then i realized that i was just making all this crap up and i was really very secure in my masculinity which is why i can write such things.

needless to say (but i will) there never was a bluebird of happiness, it was actually blue because it was a blue word, and it was a bird because you can't be heard from one car to another. of course, after having been severed the blue was forgotten, but everyone saw plenty of red.

Ghost Doll

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Ghost Doll. She was made of glass and fire, and was allergic to killer bullets. But once while waltzing to the soup store, she stepped into the middle of a bulletin board landslide that scraped her out to sea. When she finally stopped barfing shards of lemon pie, she realized that she metaphorically wasn't in Kansas anymore. She also redundantly had never been in Kansas before, at least twice. She paradoxically had ALSO never been to Kansas anymore.

After she had finally finished pondering the realizations of not having been in Kansas, she began to wonder what she should already know, and why wondering this might do her any good, when the answers were bound to be wrapped in mysterious ramblings from an impersonal narration by a former NFL hall-of-famer if they could get him, which they couldn't. But he had turned down so many opportunities that opportunity finally got bored and stopped knocking him on the head and instead tried the kneecaps and landed him like a ton of fish after he stopped bathing because he couldn't afford soup and was dyslexic in a funny (but not derogatory) way.

Opportunity knocks, not mocks. One of the new slogans opportunity had printed for tee-shirts of inverted destiny that it had printed up on aluminum feather garlands that filter through our transparent minds with greased knots weaved within our tangled strangled consciousness creating a shovel-slapped plethora of life-giving crimson fluid for the counterpoint to our intensity of inverse nuances.

Well, of all her friends Ghost Doll's best friend in the whole universe was a girl named Tuna Scooper, and they would laugh and play, even though they were only each other's imaginary friends. But they themselves were in each other's parallel universes, so they would spend their days explaining to the other imaginary friends that in the world to which they belonged they weren't real. But the other imaginary friends treated them as outcasts due in part to the fact that a decree had been written that allowed mice to be used as lies for a decade and four pennies. But still nothing came of it.

But, oh, how they would laugh and play and dissolve crickets and aluminum handbags and western style handkerchiefs which they used to sun themselves on the family gizzard pick and scream about how uptight holidays spawned by cancer are.

Those were the days we all recalled with trite contrition spoon fed like a baby mermaid glittering in the mundane & noxious oceans of our prefab bliss.

Imitation Limitation

You imitate art and you imitate life,
but you forgot who you were
and lost all your notes.

You come to me for validation
but all I have is truth.

The truth is that
you never knew
who you were
and nobody cares
who you are.

I could teach you to be me
but you’d just be
a cheap knock off.

Could you honestly live with that?

Look who I’m talking to,
there’s nobody there,
it’s you.

currency in relationships

Sweet nothing

There’s a dime in my mind recollecting a pain in increments too small to appreciate. There is a logical deficit and a negative balance that goes with it. There’s an abundance of heart but no soul. There’s change to be made, but never enough to trade for a token of faith. If you could afford the time to see me right now I’d probably crack your head open like a broken gumball machine and take all the red ones. I’ll write you a post-dated check... for a penny ...for your thoughts.

Sweetbread dough

You are a reaching plant wanting sun and straining for a chemical reaction. Your food is what happens on the outside and your breath gives life. You are more than just some green, you’re a sugar mamma with big apple lipstick. You’ve climbed the corporate vine and you’re throwing me a line. You’re lush like the tropics. You’re no vegetable honey, but everywhere you go you’re tossing salad. When your wheat is ripe you pluck the heads and spread your bread. No, you’re no veggie baby, but you spread through the roots. Your branches are snug like a multi-national conglomerate bear hug. Sorry about the animal reference.

2 more things...

Why I drink
Many drink to forget what they lost or what they cannot have. They drink to forget their desires. They drink to slow the mind and fool the heart. Some drink for pleasure, living life to the full. I drink for the noblest cause of all. I drink for the good of all mankind. I drink to forgive.

Mixed bag
What’s in your rhyme bag? Is it something about me? How I am the something of the something or the something to the something? I could read all day in your tear soaked ramblings, knowing you’ll be too embarrassed to show them in the future.

3 untitled things I wrote last night...

1)

Dangercaps unfold a meadowlarkingly lyrical call for arms of string to arrange patterned colors in leaflet folds. The tears of anchors that sway in glowing altitude glance seemingly at nearbaked orbs. The thickness is a sensation by the lips of wired maggots that seek a destined recombinant metaphorical lessening. Do your midnights burn with the same intensity as your rebirths? Or do you fire the wednesdays like farming a range war?

Peeling back the sounds that frighten you will exercise a tenfold lust for the warmth of radiant protection. As the flames envelope me, my eyes diffuse sound.


2)

Shaking into murk snakes with my mind, curling it into restless frames of ether. The constancy and vigilance of thought embodied by the coarse assembly of doughnuts and hair that somehow amounts to me, is a balance of wanton unwontedness.

Many delights are heralded as the fabric of the minds of passersby brushes softly across my cat-clawed mustache and the happy gaze they cast plucks the last ripe fruits from the harvest of my heart.

Weakly as ever, I will the beast of conversation into being, and as they are enraptured by it’s hideous grasping and thrusting, I hide the apple of destiny inside my own originality.

In the wake of these events, my thoughts are tightened down for a slow settling as comments are drawn from the lightest of the crowd.

The waves gently bed the unsettled tourists who misread the directions on my skull.


3)

The flight pays me by and tangles down to sudden draws that play into traction with armored wheels. The depth of breeding ropes, grapples and snuggles with a satisfied lung-fighter for lunch wielding hypocrites that tend intention to justify fraudulent sensations of genuineness in worth.

Triangle lesions are parked on the outermost surface of the new-found you. When the baking of your soul has been thoughtlessly performed you stand up and at the ready, but are either never quite finished or worse, overdone.